


You Put the Devil in Me

by WhatIsAir



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Avocados in College, But mostly fluff, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and a lot of Feelings, and crack, avocados in love, seriously these two are clueless, there is a lot of touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4452026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt snorts. “I actually crawled into your bed once. Is that normal platonic behavior, Franklin?”</p><p>“Oh my god, don’t call me that,” Foggy groans. “Please, Matt, do not call me that.”</p><p>Or, 5 times Matt keeps finding excuses to touch Foggy, and the 1 time he doesn't have to anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Put the Devil in Me

It starts when they’re in college, and it doesn’t stop there.

 

Foggy’s always been something of a tactile person, and it’s no different with Matt. Probably more so because it’s just easier than coming up behind him and loudly making his presence known. So Foggy compensates by lightly tapping Matt’s shoulder so he knows he’s there, and this graduates to slipping his arm through Matt’s as they walk. Foggy feels inordinately proud the day Matt decides to just leave his cane in the dorm because he and Foggy share the same classes anyway.

 

Foggy’s hand doesn’t leave the crook of Matt’s elbow all day.

 

And if at times Matt seems to know where he’s going more than Foggy, well. Foggy’s not about to complain if it means he gets to keep his hand right where it is.

 

-

Naturally their ease around each other soon translates into doing other things that are somewhat less easy to explain away than  _just helping the poor blind person here_.

 

They’re sitting side by side on a park bench, wasting away the Saturday afternoon in lieu of doing actual work, when Matt stands so suddenly the park bench teeters, and, for one horrible moment, Foggy thinks he might be falling.

 

Then Matt’s hand is on his shoulder, the other holding the bench steady, a look of concern on his face, the skin Foggy can see behind the edge of his glasses crinkled as he frowns and demands, “Are you okay?” and Foggy is made abruptly aware of how  _close_  his face is.

 

“Um,” he says, eloquently, still staring at Matt’s jaw, which is the only thing at eye-level at the moment.

 

Matt swallows, and Foggy tracks the movement of his Adam’s apple as it bobs.

 

Then Matt steps back, an easy smile on his face, and Foggy sucks in the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

-

“You’ve got something on your chin,” Foggy tells Matt, as they sit nestled in the corner booth of their favourite Italian place, finishing dessert.

 

“Oh?” Matt quirks an eyebrow, and dabs at his chin with a napkin, somehow missing the spot of cream entirely.

 

“It’s still there,” Foggy grins bemusedly and watches as Matt keeps dabbing. The napkin never even comes close to the spot.

 

“Here, let me,” Foggy reaches across the rickety table and swipes a thumb against Matt’s chin, brushing against the corner of his lips as he does so. Matt chooses that moment to lick his lips and Foggy finds himself struck with the urge to push his thumb into Matt’s mouth, just to see what he’ll do.

 

Instead he pulls his hand back and licks the whipped cream off his own finger. Matt makes a strangled sound and Foggy looks up, worried his friend is choking to death on mascarpone cheese or something of that nature, only to find Matt’s head tilted in his direction, cheeks flushed and lips parted and –  _oh._ Matt’s  _listening_  to him, to what he’s doing and  _fuck_  but that’s hot.

 

“Thanks,” Matt says eventually, his voice a faint thing as he turns his attention back to the remainder of his tiramisu.

 

“Hm?” Foggy asks, his mind too busy coming up with  _other_  scenarios involving whipped cream and licking things off Matt’s body to register what’s being said. “Oh. Yeah, no problem.”

 

And if that night he dreams of Matt, and the curve of that sinful mouth, of how it would look wrapped around his cock – well. Nobody but Foggy has to know.

 

-

Foggy’s sitting in bed, doing his best to learn the list of Punjabi vocabulary he’s meant to have done last week, when Matt abruptly gets off his own bed, crosses the room and, feeling around for the mattress, climbs on top of Foggy’s covers.

 

“Matt, what –” Foggy starts, only to be cut off when Matt yanks the covers back and climbs in beside him, wriggling until he’s comfortable. Foggy yelps when Matt’s toes brush his calf because – “ _Jesus_ , Matt, they’re freezing.”

 

“I  _know_ ,” Matt says happily, and presses his icy feet harder against Foggy’s legs to illustrate the point, “Radiator on my side’s broken. I thought we could share.”

 

Foggy sighs. “Fine, but keep your feet to yourself, because I’ll have you know I have a very low tolerance for the cold.”

 

Matt frowns, lips pursing into an honest to God  _pout_ , and Foggy almost caves because Matt’s mouth does things to him. But then Matt’s retracting his feet and Foggy barely has time to rejoice before Matt’s flopping down to lie beside him, pillowing his head on Foggy’s thigh and this is  _worse_. So much worse because Foggy’s thought about Matt in his bed more times than he cares to count, and now he’s  _here_ , warm and solid and radiating heat –

 

“Uh, Matt?” Foggy asks, prodding his friend in the ribs.

 

“Mm,” Matt replies non-committally, and slings an arm around Foggy’s waist like he’s his own personal Foggy-shaped throw pillow. Foggy feels more flattered by this than he probably should.

 

“I thought you said you were cold,” Foggy raises an eyebrow and assumes a sardonic expression that Matt can’t see, but which he hopes can be extrapolated from his tone. “This,” he nudges Matt’s side, “this doesn’t feel very cold to me.”

 

“Never said  _I_ was cold,” Matt says, voice muffled into Foggy’s sweatpants, “Just my feet.”

 

“Ugh, fine,” Foggy mutters, knowing he’s going to regret this, “Hit me.”

 

Matt’s grin lights up his entire face and Foggy’s suddenly glad Matt can’t see the goofy grin plastered all over his own as Matt tucks his feet between Foggy’s, laughing when Foggy groans and tries to pull away.

 

“Nope,” he beams, yanking Foggy back so they’re practically pressed chest to chest, “Keep ‘em there, Nelson.”

 

Foggy’s still whining about inconsiderate roommates and icy feet half an hour later, when Matt’s feet are in fact very warm, but for some reason they stay tucked against his own, and Matt’s starting to doze off.

 

When it’s well past midnight and Matt is definitely sound asleep, Foggy decides to give up the Punjabi vocab as a bad job and leans over to turn the bedside light off.

 

He falls asleep to Matt’s warm weight curled against him, as he matches his own breaths to the even rise and fall of Matt’s chest.

 

-

“Just how drunk  _are_  you?” Foggy laughs, as Matt pitches forward and barely manages to catch himself by clutching the edge of a table.

 

“I’m – fine,” Matt giggles, “Just – just one more.” He signals in the opposite direction of where Josie is, and Foggy looks on, amused, until he takes pity on Matt and shouts, “Two beers, please” at Josie.

 

They clink beer mugs and just as they’re raising them to their lips, Matt pauses and a slow grin spreads across his face. “Race you,” Matt says, and doesn’t wait for Foggy to give the affirmative before he’s downing his beer, practically inhaling it as he drains it in a several long pulls.

 

Foggy shakes his head. “You’re such a  _child_ , Murdock.” But he downs his pint gamely and slams the mug onto the coaster, earning him a reproving glare from Josie.

 

“So are you,” Matt points out, and then promptly dissolves into giggles.

 

He’s still laughing when they make it out onto the street and are heading back to the dorm, his cane tucked under an arm, Foggy clutching the other because at the rate Matt’s going, he’s going to end up walking into a lamppost, or worse.

 

Matt stops walking and Foggy goes two more steps before his grip on Matt’s arm forces him to a stop. “Matt?”

 

“Shh,” Matt says, lifting a hand and patting clumsily around Foggy’s face until he finds his mouth. Matt taps his index finger against Foggy’s lips, says, “Quiet. You’ll scare her away.”

 

“Scare  _who_ away?” Foggy mumbles around Matt’s finger, which for some reason is still resting on his lips.

 

“Her,” Matt tilts his head to the right. A glance in that direction reveals nothing except a nondescript alleyway and an overflowing dumpster.

 

“Matt, I don’t see any –”

 

But Matt’s already making his way into the alley, tugging Foggy’s sleeve so he has no choice but to follow. For someone both blind  _and_  drunk, Matt picks his over the virtual minefield of scattered wrappers, glass shards and plastic cans with surprising grace.

 

They pass the dumpster, and Matt immediately drops to a crouch on the alley floor. Foggy winces and makes a mental note to burn the jeans Matt’s wearing as soon as they get back.

 

“Hello,” Matt murmurs, and Foggy glances down to see his friend cradling a tabby cat in his arms. Not for the first time, he wonders what kind of freaky sixth sense Matt possesses, because he sure as hell hadn’t  _seen_  the cat, so how had he known it was there?

 

“She’s hungry,” Matt looks up at Foggy, expression pleading. Foggy looks at himself, at the reflection he sees in Matt’s glasses, watches the exact moment his face crumples because he knows he’s fighting a losing battle here; he’s always going to cave and say yes to Matt. Especiallyif he pulls that kicked puppy face he’s currently wearing.

 

“We’ll get her something on our way back,” Foggy says, and is completely unprepared for the thousand-watt smile Matt gives him, crooked and sincere, and the certainty of the feeling that slams into him – that he would do anything to make Matt smile like that again. Like Foggy’s everything that’s good in this world.

 

They get a tuna sandwich from a deli and Matt feeds it to the tabby, and when it’s wolfed most of it down the cat rubs its head against Matt’s leg, curling its tail once around his ankle before turning and slinking off down another side alley.

 

“Bye,” Matt says rather forlornly after it. He’s still clutching the sandwich wrapper.

 

Foggy takes it from him gently and dumps it in a nearby trash can.

 

“Thanks, Foggy,” Matt says, nodding solemnly. He sways rather dangerously and Foggy steadies him. “You’re the best,” Matt mutters, his body sagging against Foggy’s as he leans into him. “What would I do without you.”

 

"I ask myself the same thing every day," Foggy says dryly, to hide the fact that his palms are suddenly damp and his heart is beating rather frantically against his ribcage.

 

Matt laughs, a huff of air against Foggy’s neck. And then there are lips –  _Matt’s_ lips – being pressed to the side of his neck, and Foggy thinks for a wild moment that his heart stops beating altogether.

 

“Matt?”

 

Matt just keeps standing there, completely invading Foggy’s personal space and he’s  _still_  got his mouth pressed to the rapidly thrumming pulse on Foggy’s neck.

 

“ _Matt_ ,” Foggy says, more insistently, when Matt doesn’t move, “C’mon, we gotta go.”

 

A light snore greets him, and Foggy blinks in disbelief because  _honestly_ , leave it to Matt to fall asleep in the middle of the street  _while standing up_. He pokes Matt’s shoulder. “Hey, I’m not dragging your conked out ass back to the dorm.”

 

“What’d you say ‘bout my ass?” Matt mumbles blearily into Foggy’s shoulder.

 

Foggy groans and despairs at his life, and the choices he’s made. “Nothing you didn’t already know,” he mutters under his breath, as he loops Matt’s arm around his shoulder and starts walking the two of them back to the campus.

 

-

“Maybe you should take a break, Foggy,” Matt suggests mildly, after an hour and a half of listening to Foggy’s frantic pacing and coffee-chugging.

 

“Who, me? Why? Do I look like I need a break, Matt?” Foggy says, spinning to face Matt, a coffee mug in one hand and a pile of coffee-stained papers in the other.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” Matt quirks an eyebrow and slides his glasses down the bridge of his nose to emphasize the point.

 

Despite himself, Foggy laughs. “Okay, fair point. Doesn’t change the fact that I, Foggy Nelson, am most definitely  _not_ in need of a break of any kind. Nope. I am on a roll, I’m unbeatable, I can do this till the day I  _die_  –”

 

“Foggy, you’ve been at this all day, and I know for a fact that you haven’t read a single word in the past hour,” Matt says from his perch on Foggy’s bed.

 

“You can’t  _possibly_  know that,” Foggy says mulishly, narrowing his eyes at Matt.

 

“Actually I can.” Matt gets to his feet and pads his way over to the desk situated halfway between their beds. He rifles in the top drawer and thrusts a stack of papers at Foggy. “Those are your papers. I took them an hour ago so you’d get some rest.”

 

Foggy glances down. Matt’s right; those  _are_ the papers he should’ve been working on. “Wait, so what’s this?” He looks at the coffee-stained pages he’s been holding (and not-reading) for the past hour.

 

The entire paper is in Braille.

 

“Oh,” is all Foggy can think of to say. He takes a long draught from the coffee mug. It’s lukewarm and nowhere  _near_ being strong enough.

 

“Yes,  _oh_.” Matt rolls his eyes, and when did he take his glasses off? Matt’s hand finds his shoulder and makes its way down Foggy’s arm. Foggy doesn’t resist when Matt plucks the paper and mug from his hands and sets them down on the desk.

 

Then Matt pushes at Foggys’ back and all but propels him towards the other side of their room, towards Matt’s bed. Foggy goes, because the alternative is parsing through a whole lot of legal jargon that’s dull even on a good day.

 

Foggy  _does_ resist when Matt’s hands shift and he appears to be trying to rid Foggy of his hoodie.

 

“What, what’re you doing,” Foggy says, leaning back and away from Matt’s prying fingers. “Why are you undressing me?”

 

Matt frowns, letting his hands fall back into his lap. “You’re wearing too many layers, Foggy,” he says, like that makes any  _sense_.

 

“It’s February and it’s freezing, there is no such thing as too many layers.”

 

Matt’s frown deepens. “There’s heating. Just take it off, Foggy.”

 

And because Foggy has a penchant for caving and just going along with whatever Matt wants, Foggy shrugs out of his hoodie, balls it up and tosses it in the general direction of his bed.

 

He misses by a mile.

 

“There. You happy?”

 

“Yes.” Matt’s grinning now, that happy, private grin that Foggy hasn’t seen in months, and it warms him in ways his hoodie can’t. Matt pushes at his shoulders. “Lie down.”

 

Foggy should probably be worried about the implications of what they’re doing, but Matt’s hands are warm even through the T-shirt he’s got on, and Foggy’s never been good at saying no to Matt.

 

So Foggy flops down on his – Matt’s – bed, and is completely unprepared for it when the next words out of Matt’s mouth are, “Turn over.”

 

He thinks his brain short-circuits. When it comes back online, Foggy is able to respond with a concise, “Um?”

 

Matt huffs impatiently. “Turn  _over_ ,” he repeats, then clarifies, “On your stomach,” and Foggy does, trying to quell the rush of blood going south as he arranges himself so he’s lying on his front on Matt’s bed.

 

“Right, so what exactly are you –” Foggy cuts himself off as Matt climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping, and swings a leg over Foggy’s back so he’s effectively straddling Foggy’s hips.

 

“Matt,” Foggy squeaks, which is all kinds of embarrassing but probably not as embarrassing as it would be if he started humping the bed. Which is seriously looking like a definite possibility if Matt doesn’t get off him  _now_ and God, is he  _moving_ his hips?

 

“Hang on, lemme just,” Matt says by way of explanation, and wriggles until he’s satisfied. “Sorry, your hipbone was poking my leg.”

 

Foggy opens his mouth to ask him what the  _hell_  he’s doing but then Matt’s hands are on his shoulders and he’s kneading them, fingers digging expertly into the muscle and Foggy groans, head falling forward onto the pillow as Matt attacks the wound-up muscles like a goddamn  _masseuse_.

 

“Good?” Matt asks eventually, after maybe ten minutes of him kneading and Foggy moaning incoherently as the tension bled out.

 

“Good? This is  _amazing_ ,” Foggy says fervently, gratified when Matt chuckles. “You’re the best. You should do this professionally, sweet  _Jesus_.”

 

Foggy’s not sure when Matt’s hands leave his shoulders, but now they’re working on the back of his neck, then down his back, working the tension out of places where he didn’t even know could get tense.

 

By the time Matt reaches his lower back, Foggy’s practically melted into the bed. “I’ve – I  _am_  one with this bed,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he drifts in limbo between the sweet nothing of sleep and the sweet  _everything_ of Matt’s hands on him.

 

Matt laughs, lips curving into a smile that Foggy realizes with a start that he can  _feel on his skin_. Foggy blinks, suddenly feeling much more awake.

 

Matt’s hands are resting either side of his hips, and he’s trailing his lips down the back of Foggy’s neck, on the skin just above the collar of his shirt.

 

“You’re not, um,” Foggy clears his throat. “You haven’t fallen asleep again, have you?”

 

Matt’s lips still, and Foggy wants to kick himself because  _stupid, stupid, should’ve kept his mouth shut._ After a pause that stretches on forever, Matt says quietly, “No.”

 

“Okay,” Foggy mutters. He has no idea what to do with this information. “Just – just checking.”

 

Matt makes a frustrated sound that’s caught somewhere between a sigh and a snarl, then proceeds to execute a truly impressive move that rolls them over and somehow ends with Matt flat on his back and Foggy hovering over him uncertainly.

 

“What do I have to  _do_ , Foggy?” Matt snaps, fisting a hand in Foggy’s shirt collar, and Foggy reels at the venom in his tone. “I’ve tried the touching thing, is the touching thing not obvious enough to you?”

 

Foggy’s brow furrows. “What do you mean, the touching thing?”

 

Matt’s face assumes an incredulous,  _really?_  expression. “You’re telling me you  _don’t_ think I touch you, like, a lot?”

 

Something in Foggy’s mind slots into place and he thinks back to how easily Matt navigates his way across campus by himself, and yet always slips an arm through Foggy’s when they leave a lecture. He thinks about the time he and Matt had been trapped in an elevator for hours and Matt had been perfectly fine, then about the time they were on the subway during rush hour and Matt had crowded in close, and clung to Foggy like he was drowning and Foggy a life-preserver, whispering, “Don’t like enclosed spaces” in his ear as he did so.

 

“Ah,” Foggy says.

 

Matt snorts. “I actually  _crawled into your bed_  once. Is that normal platonic behavior, Franklin?”

 

“Oh my god, don’t call me that,” Foggy groans. “Please, Matt,  _do not_  call me that.”

 

“Franklin, Franklin, Franklin,” Matt chants, smirking up at him. “Frank –”

 

Matt’s cut off when Foggy pitches forward and kisses the name right out of his mouth.

 

+1

 

While Foggy thinks he’s always known, deep down, that Matt’s different, and  _special_ , and that no person, blind or not, should be able to do some of the things Matt can do, it still takes a while to get used to the fact that his boyfriend masquerades as a masked vigilante in his free time.

 

Nonetheless, he’s gotten used to it, which means now he can officially say he’s having none of Matt’s bullshit.

 

“No, if you want it that much, you can make it yourself.”

 

“But Foggy,” Matt whines, thumping his head against the back of the armrest, from where he’s sprawled inelegantly over the length of the couch.

 

“Nope, you can make your own damn pancakes,” Foggy says, not taking his eyes off the laptop in front of him.

 

“I  _can’t_ ,” Matt says, affecting the miserable air of one trying to win another’s sympathy. “What if I overdo the batter? What if I burn the pancakes? What if they fall out of the pan? What if I burn  _myself_?”

 

Foggy finally looks up from his Twitter feed. “You can somersault across rooftops and, like, take down Russian mafias while dressed in a tight-as-fuck spandex costume. I think you can handle a few pancakes on your own.”

 

Matt opens his mouth to argue, then closes it when he can think of nothing to say. He settles for looking deeply offended as he heaves himself off the couch and stalks past Foggy on his way to the kitchen.

 

Foggy sticks his foot out in front of him and watches in glee as Matt performs some kind of pirouette and flip in order to avoid falling flat on his face.

 

Matt glares at Foggy’s forehead. “Just for that, I’m not making you any.”

 

“Fine by me,” Foggy says, and turns back to Twitter.

 

For the next fifteen minutes he hears cabinet doors opening and closing, followed by a suspicious lack of the stove being switched on, or of the smell of anything being cooked.

“Matt, what are you doing in there?” he calls.

 

No answer, except for the clang of something hitting the floor. Foggy sighs, casts one last mournful look at his laptop, and goes to investigate.

 

An overturned chair is the first thing he sees when he enters. The next thing he sees stops him dead in his tracks.

 

“Ah,” Foggy says, which seems to be something he says a lot whenever he’s around Matt.

 

Because Matt’s lying sprawled on the countertop, naked save for his boxers, smirking lazily in Foggy’s direction like he knows exactly what picture he’s painting and is proud of it. As Foggy watches, Matt reaches behind him and plucks a can of whipped cream out of nowhere, before spraying a careful line down the middle of his torso. Foggy’s mouth is dry as Matt keeps going, spraying across now, instead of down, until he’s outlined his washboard abs with meticulous lines of cream.

 

Matt sits up, expression carefully blank as he sets the can down. Then he dips a finger into the cream and drags it very deliberately across his nipple.

 

Foggy pounces.

 

Later, when Matt’s stomach has been licked free of cream and Foggy’s been licked clean in other places, and Foggy’s kitchen looks like a hurricane hit it and the overturned chair is the  _least_  of his worries, he flops down besides Matt on the kitchen floor, wincing as the cold floor touches his back.

 

“Next time,” Foggy gasps, jabbing Matt’s side pointedly, “Next time I’m making the pancakes. My kitchen cannot sustain this level of damage every time you start craving those sons of bitches.”

 

Matt beams at him without a hint of remorse, sitting up and straddling Foggy’s waist as he kisses him, tasting like whipped cream and coffee.

 

“What can I say,” Matt smirks as he pulls back and rests their foreheads together, “You bring out the devil in me.”

**Author's Note:**

> gahh these two flailing as they fall in love is my favourite thing
> 
> I love comments about as much as I love these two so please tell me what you thought
> 
> and if y'all have any prompts or any fics you want to see happen, tell me and I'll do my best (:


End file.
